Capitol Punishment
by Brownish
Summary: A Warden turns up dead at a naval base in Washington D.C., killed by a gang of vampires. Jurisdictional issues arise swiftly. Discontinued.


I disclaim all rights to the NCIS, Buffy and Dresden Files universe and characters.

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McGee walked into the elevator with his cheeks still tingling from Abby's celebration kisses. It wasn't official yet, but Ziva had submitted an application to NCIS - she was going to stay! He waited until the doors closed completely, and did an impromptu dance of joy. He'd had to hold one in earlier at his desk, so this one was twice as exuberant as it should be. He was happy, but a little annoyed - Ziva should have told the team she was staying, not just Gibbs. McGee had only found out because he had a backdoor into the NCIS server, and checked every morning for new files that referenced him or his friends by name. He'd run the search, still a little sleepy, and sat bolt upright in his chair when the application flashed up on screen. He'd read it in a little bit of a daze, and then closed it and gone down to tell Abby.

McGee stepped out into the bullpen smiling, and Gibbs swept past him into the elevator, Tony trailing behind.

"We've got a body, McGee," said Gibbs, and he darted to his desk to grab his bag. Gibbs held the door for him, and they rode down to the garage. McGee watched Tony, wondering if Ziva had told him. Now that he thought about it, telling Abby had been a really bad idea. Ziva was going to find out that Abby already knew, and then Gibbs would wonder how McGee knew, and the backdoor would no longer be a secret. McGee frowned, and decided not to tell Tony. The less he spread the information around, the less likely it would come back to bite him. Besides, Tony had been a dick about that sandwich last week. Time for some revenge.

The body was in a warehouse down at the Indian Head ordnance facility, found by a security guard in a warehouse. The drive was fairly long, and Tony nattered on about the symbolism of security guards in various murder mysteries, while McGee played Minesweeper on his phone. Gibbs drove, quiet as usual, but a little less intense. McGee smiled knowingly, hiding it behind the phone as he cleared the screen. Not even a dead body could ruin the thrill of knowing Ziva was staying with them, not going back to Mossad - never again. He managed to wipe the smile off his face as they arrived at the warehouse. McGee tried to focus on the job, assume that professional mindset that Gibbs and Tony (and Ziva) had down pat. It still didn't come easily to him.

The body had been found in the warehouse by a security guard, investigating reports of shouts and strange lights. Gibbs took the guard aside, and sent Tony and McGee to document the scene and check for physical evidence. It wasn't pretty. The warehouse had been mostly empty, apart from an antiquated forklift - which had been knocked onto its side and covered with scorch marks. One of the metal support columns in the centre of the warehouse was crumpled to the side, as though it had been hit by a wrecking ball, and another column had been twisted by intense heat - like a clock from a Dali painting. The body was on the other side of the warehouse from the wrecked columns, dead not from a crushing blow or heat, but blood loss. The victim was a middle-aged man with greying red hair, dead from two massive slices across the front of his body. McGee carefully photographed the positioning of the body, lying on its right side half-wrapped in a grey cloak. The body's right hand was curled under its body, grasping a short wooden rod, and its left hand was extended, reaching out to the sword lying next to the body.

The weapon was a longsword, and not a replica - McGee recognised the distinctive marks of pattern forging; this was an authentic weapon. Also, it was covered in blood. There were a few irregular bloodstains scattered around the body, and Tony carefully photographed them from several angles while McGee measured the distance between the pieces of physical evidence. McGee finished his preliminary notes and looked up, to see Gibbs watching from the warehouse's side door. McGee nudged Tony, and they picked their way over to Gibbs, who gave McGee a long stare, then addressed the air between his two subordinates.

"Well?" Tony got in first.

"Bloodstains all over the place, boss, and serious property damage. This was a real fight. I think the winning side took their dead with them, maybe left the dead guy as a message." McGee jumped in when Tony paused for thought.

"The victim was using a longsword, hand-forged, very high quality. There won't be many suppliers in the area. He was also holding a stick with some odd carvings, might help with identification. I can't get a good look at them until Ducky clears the body." Tony leapt back into the conversation.

"The scorching is pretty haphazard, looks like it was done during the fight. A blowtorch, maybe." McGee continued as if Tony hadn't spoken.

"No bullet wounds, no stray rounds, no casings. A hand-to-hand fight, and a really nasty one."

Gibbs watched them for a moment, and took a sip of his coffee. Then he nodded. It was all the approval that the two agents needed, and they went back to their respective jobs. Gibbs walked the scene, taking careful sips of coffee as he waited for Ducky to arrive. The examiner came in ten minutes later, his assistant Jimmy maneuvering a stretcher through the door after him. Ducky greeted Gibbs with a cheerful "Good morning, Jethro!" and promptly began his examination of the body. Ten minutes later, Ducky walked over to Jethro as Jimmy wheeled the bidy out to the van.

"What do you think, Ducky?" Gibbs said, staring at the heat-twisted column.

"A most unusual murder, Jethro," Ducky said solemnly. "Judging from the striations and tear patterns on the wounds, I would say the victim was killed by something with claws." Gibbs glanced around at the deserted Navy warehouse.

"An animal attack?"

"Oh, no," Ducky said quickly. "But claws are often fashioned into weapons; I can give you more detail once I examine the body with the proper equipment. Why, I once saw a club set with tiger teeth. It belonged to a rather roguish hunter from India, who spent most of his reward money on the local liquor. A rough brew, the taste was very similar to turpentine..."

Gibbs tuned out the rambling story as he gestured for Tony and McGee to finish up. A few minutes later they were on their way back to the office, Tony drumming his fingers against the steering wheel as Gibbs mulled over the evidence, and McGee played on his phone some more - Solitaire, this time. Tony perked up as they passed a coffee shop.

"Hey, look at the clown car!"

McGee glanced up, and saw an incredibly battered Beetle parked outside the coffee shop. There were deep gouges down one side, and almost every panel had been replaced in a different colour. McGee couldn't tell what colour the car had been originally. A tall man in a leather coat leaned against the car, fiddling with a cup of coffee. He raised his eyebrows at the NCIS car as they passed by. McGee tried to catch the guy in the rear vision mirror, but got distracted by a girl walking past. She was wearing a yellow sun dress, and carried a gym bag slung over one shoulder. McGee watched the petite blonde until she was out of sight.

"Window shopping, McGee?" Tony quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you had something going with the polygraph girl. Better be careful, she knows if you're lying."

McGee ignored Tony with great dignity, all the way back to the office.

*

I tossed my coffee in the bin, and clambered into my car, the unstoppable Blue Beetle. Maybe not the most fashionable car I could drive, but it was easily repaired and didn't contain any electronic systems that might get destroyed by magic. Yes, magic, for I am Harry Dresden, wizard and private investigator (which means I get in twice as much trouble as someone who's just one of the two). I'm a part of the White Council, a group that governs wizards; I'm also a Warden, the wizarding Gestapo. So when a fellow Warden turned up dead, I got detailed to figure out how he died. There was no shortage of suspects. The White Council was currently at war with the Red Court of vampires, and there were any number of minor players who might want to kill a Warden. To complicate things, Davidson had been a particularly annoying man with a lot of enemies inside the Council; and then there was the Black Council, the hidden faction that no one talked about. Finding a motive for Davidson's death was not exactly going to be difficult; narrowing down the field of suspects would be the tricky part.

My first step was to check out the murder scene, for both physical and magical evidence. Unfortuantely, a Navy ambulance and a couple of cars were already parked outside by the time I arrived, so I went to get some coffee. It had been a long drive. I endured the sideways glances at my duster, and leant against the Beetle as I drank it down. It tasted appalling and scorched the back of my throat, but I needed the caffeine. The drive from Chicago to D.C. had not been pleasant. I clambered into the Beetle, set the half-empty coffee cup on the dashboard, and re-read Davidson's Council file to kill time. It was a thick folder of detailed after-action reports and execution confirmations (yeah, not warrants - confirmations). I skipped to the summary at the back.

Davidson's career had been fairly unremarkable. He'd done well during the Red Court war by not dying - until now, of course. He had been particularly skilled in unravelling complex, highly structured spells such as wards and bindings. Owned a house an hour's drive west of D.C., but rarely had the time to stay there. Survived by a sister...no more details. I flicked back to the start, and found a report on Davidson's family and friends from whe he first applied to become a Warden. His sister worked for the Navy in an IT position, right here in D.C; he visited her for her birthday every year. It had been yesterday. Had Davidson been trying to reach her when he was killed? I rubbed my forehead with one hand. That should be my next stop, after I got a look at the crime scene. Her address was listed in the file, which was kind of creepy when I thought about it. Obviously the Council wanted some levers on its Wardens, but now that the Black Council had agents on the inside...I frowned at the thought of my own file, listing my friends and family for the enemy. It was a disquieting idea, and I mulled it over as I waited for the Navy people to finish up at the crime scene. Ideally I would have gotten there before them, but such is life.

I was leaning against the Beetle, tearing strips off my coffee cup, when a van with Navy markings and a car full of alert, professional people went by, staring at the Beetle as so many did. Finally. Obviously the Navy weren't as quick at rationalisation as most of the other cops I'd met; a serious flaw in law enforcement officials. I started up the trusty Blue Beetle, wincing as the engine coughed repeatedly before catching, and set off to the crime scene. I parked a few streets over, and simply walked up to the crime scene. The area was totally deserted, so there was no chance of looking inconspicuous. As I opened the warehouse's side door and ducked under the crime scene tape, I sniggered.

"Well, this takes me back," I murmured to myself. "Haven't snuck into a crime scene for years." Great, now I was talking to myself. I really needed a sidekick, a foil for my rapier wit; all my friends were far too witty to be good straight men (or women. Straightpersons.)

I paced around the crime scene, careful not to step in anything. The scorch marks, overturned forklift and slagged support column drew my attention first. I examined the property damage carefully, and whistled at the metal column. It was twisted, half-melted by a focused blast of heat; Warden-style evocation. So Davidson had gotten a few good shots off, although it was impossible to know if they'd hit anything besides the scenery. I turned away from the scorch marks and walked over to the series of bloodstains out in the middle of the warehouse, each patch of dried brown marked by a numbered yellow flag. Davidson hadn't been an idiot; I didn't know why he'd come to this warehouse, but once inside he'd stayed out in the open where he could do the most damage. Hadn't been enough, though. There were two or three smaller bloodstains in a rough semicircle; they looked like sprays from injuries rather than mortal wounds. Davidson had either been cut repeatedly before death, or he'd managed to hurt his attackers. Odd that they hadn't cleaned up after themselves; blood was useful for curses and tracking spells. Too old now, but I swabbed some up with cotton tips and sealed them in plastic bags, feeling very CSI and investigator-ey. Just in case.

Then the main event. The bloodstain was large and irregular, splotchy in the middle where the body had been. I wondered how the Navy people had lifted the body without smearing blood all over themselves. What fascinating questions a life of wizardry raises. I crouched down next to the half-dried pool of blood, and tried to reason out the fight. Davidson hits them with fire, maybe hurts them, maybe not. They get in close, and he starts using a slashing weapon - his Warden sword, probably. They cut him up, he dies, they leave - taking any wounded or dead, but not cleaning up their blood. I frowned. The pool of blood was too large for a dead body slowly seeping blood. I took in a sharp breath as I realised what had happened. "Hell's bells!" They had cut him up, and let him bleed to death. Hadn't they been worried about his death curse? Well, apparently not. That narrowed the field of suspects considerably; there weren't all that many beings that could shrug off a Warden's final spell.

I would have tried to eliminate some of that august group based on lack of motive, but my head was busy being introduced to the ground. I didn't see a thing; one moment I was crouched down next to the bloodstain, and the next I was flat on the ground six feet to the side. Tiny suns bloomed before my eyes, dancing in time to the black swirls in my peripheral vision. My thoughts were jumbled and twisted up, but one idea came through pretty clear: _escape_. I threw my shoulder to the side, hoping to roll over and get my blasting rod from my coat's hip pocket. It was like jumping into a girder. Something immensely strong was pressing down between my shoulders, not immediately painful but enough to keep me stationary. Ridiculous attempts at gymnastics had failed, so I went to Plan B.

"So, I'm guessing you work out a lot," I threw out randomly, wiggling a hand under my prone body towards my blasting rod.

Something pressed down on my wrist, immobilising my arm. For a creature that was obviously incredibly strong, my captor was being oddly gentle. Normally things that jumped me at crime scenes went straight into the grievous bodily harm, but this one was holding steady at mere assault.

Suddenly it spoke, sounding young, female and oddly perky.

"Quit it, buster. No magic whatever for you. Now, who are you and what are you doing here?" Despite the side of my face being smeared into the concrete, I managed to put together a coherent response.

"Shouldn't I ask you the same thing?" My captor sighed.

"Don't you know it's rude to answer a question with a question?"

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?" I shot back. My brain was piecing itself back together, and I was trying to decide what to do. I could throw out a force evocation wide enough to hit whatever had me down, but that probably wouldn't be strong enough to hurt it. Without my blasting rod, I couldn't do anything more powerful without blowng my own head off as well.

My frantic calculation was interrupted by a soft laugh, relaxed and girlish.

"Funny. But I'm not letting you up until I get some answers."

"Not exactly easy to talk like this," I slurred, acting up the impediment a touch.

Whatever was pressing down on my wrist knocked my arm out to the side, and the pressure on my back lifted. Before I could take advantage of this, I was rolled over onto my back, my arms trapped underneath my torso. The pressure returned, this time on my clavicle. I tilted my head forward, and saw a dainty foot resting on my chest, clad in a dark red sandal. The nails were painted to match the sandal. My eyes crossed as they traced a smooth, firm leg up to the hem of a cheerful yellow summer dress. I blinked. My captor was a refugee from California, carefully styled bottle-blonde locks and all. She was petite, maybe even shorter than Murphy, but there was no sign of strain on her pretty face as she held me down with one elegant foot.

"Is that more comfortable?"

"Well, my nose is all itchy. So if you could let me move my arms, that would be great." My mind wasn't really on the banter; I was trying to figure out how to disable her before she could drive her foot through my chest. Bottle-Blonde arched an eyebrow.

"I'm serious about the answers. Are you working with the Red Court crew that killed a man here last night? Tidying up the scene?" The foot on my chest began to press downwards, and I had to choke my reply out.

"I'm a Warden! With the White Council!" The pressure eased slightly.

"Why would a Warden be skulking around a vampire kill?"

"The victim was a Warden. Investigating his death," I gasped out.

"Oh." She sounded a little disappointed. "Well, that makes sense then." I waited for a moment, but she didn't move.

"Air?"

"Right, sorry." Bottle-Blonde stepped backwards, and I took a huge gulp of air. Oh, it tasted sweet.

I breathed in and out a few times, watching Blondie as she shifted nervously on her feet. I'd been beaten up by more than a few beings, some of them even prettier than Blondie; but none of them had been as genuinely sorry afterwards. Maybe this really was a mistake. I started to sit up slowly, but Blondie bent down to help.

"Oh, right, sorry." She grabbed me under each arm and yanked me to my feet in a single smooth motion, supporting my weight until I'd got my balance again.

"Thanks." I brushed dirt off my coat, and oh-so-casually put one hand into the side pocket and around my blasting rod. The carved and wire-inlaid wood was comforting against my palm. "So, can we introduce ourselves again? Verbally?"

"Sure." Her smile was bright and empty as she stuck out a small hand. "I'm Buffy. I'm a Slayer."

I have to admit, for a moment I blinked in shock. The Council kept an eye on the slayer and the Watchers' Conclave, as they were a minor but significant power in the mystical world. I was pretty sure I'd read a report a few years back about one Buffy Summers being _dead_, and honestly, it wasn't a forgettable name. Once I'd moved past the shock and into rampant paranoia, I stuck out a hand warily.

"Harry Dresden. I'm a Warden, regional commander for eastern United States."

Her grip was firm and measured, like a bodybuilder careful not to crush the puny weakling's hand; except the bodybuilder in this case was somewhere short of five foot, and looked stunning in yellow. I released the handshake and stepped back, as casually as I could.

"So, why is the Slayer hanging around a disreputable warehouse? Was one of the Courts in on the murder?" If Summers - I was not calling a supernaturally empowered warrior iBuffy/i - could finger the Red Court, that might be enough for the Council and I could get home to my extra-large dog and cat before they decided they loved Murphy more than me.

"I was clearing out a Red Court house a little further down the river," Summers said casually. "I grabbed the leader and hit him for information, said he was hired for muscle on a job, so I came down to see what he was on about."

"He still alive?" I asked idly, walking back to the bloodstains.

"No..." said Summers slowly. I guess the Slayer doesn't really need informants, or prisoners.

"You know anything about blood spray patterns?" I asked rhetorically. Summers walked over next to me, and whistled.

"They weren't bad."

"Who?" She flicked me a glance that threw me right back to high school.

"The Warden. Was fighting four or five guys, probably the hired vamps, and hit them a few times." Summers circled the area, examining the stains and scuff intently. "They got him, probably with claws somewhere nasty but nonvital. Then he bled out." She frowned, turned to me. "Why would they do that? Red Court wouldn't waste the blood, and no vamp of any colour would let a wizard die slowly."

I opened my mouth to reply, and heard something from outside the warehouse. Summers perked up.

"Someone parked a car outside," she hissed softly, tilting her head. "Three human males. They're complaining about how long the trip is, and angry that the Navy got here first." She smiled at me, a predator's smile, somehow even more threatening from a blonde in a sundress. "How about some tag-team interrogation?"

"I've got a better idea," I murmured, and walked over to stand next to a column. Summers raised an eyebrow, but came when I gestured. I directed her to lean back against the column next to me.

"Are you doing a veil?" She whispered, just loud enough for me to hear.

"Can't," I replied. "A suggestion. Takes concentration, so shush."

She shut up, and I concentrated, gathering my will together. I couldn't raise a veil over even myself, my talents didn't run in that direction, but I _could_ muster a pretty powerful suggestion - a don't-look-over-here, if you will. Obvious and inefficient, but sufficient unto the day thereof. I focused on the effect I desired, and pushed my magic out and around the column, whispering "_Velieris_". I could feel the power settle around us, pushing on the will of anyone nearby to ignore us and look away. The spell was ready not a moment too soon, as the side door opened and I got my first look at someone who might be responsible for Davidson's murder.

---

So yeah, another story. I swear that I'm working on The Hunt, but this was so light and fun that I couldn't resist.


End file.
